Draco Dormiens
by FangQueen13
Summary: For when there's no such thing as happily ever after. Harry can't sleep, so he watches Draco. A love story in not so many words. Postwar. SLASH HPDM


**Draco Dormiens**

* * *

_When you have insomnia, you're never really asleep, and you're never really awake._

_ Fight Club_

* * *

Harry was surprised to be awake. He wasn't sure what had awoken him; he had not fallen off the bed, there were no loud noises apart from the general hustle and bustle of London, and sunlight was seeping through the thin white curtains to suffuse the bedroom of his little flat with a warm, golden glow. All very comfortable and ordinary. 

Except that it _wasn't_ ordinary. Harry hadn't woken up to such a blissfully cozy morning since his schooldays in the scarlet-draped Gryffindor dormitories. Usually he woke up in the blue hours of dawn, his back stiff and his legs shaky from fatigue as he rolled out of bed to go put on a pot of tea, because he knew trying to fall back asleep would be pointless. Every now and then Harry woke up in the middle of the night, screaming.

Malfoy didn't always stay the night, but if he did, he only ever woke up before dawn when Harry screamed. Harry would be lying on his back, trying to sort the fading fragments of the nightmare apart a growing sense of reality: _This is my room, my bed, my bookshelf, my work robes hanging over the back of the chair…It is not raining, there are no strewn bodies, no flashes of lightning illuminating hooded robes and skull-shaped masks…_ And then he would feel a hand on his forehead, tracing his scar, pushing back the sweaty hair.

"Going to die on me, Potter?" the other man would murmur. At these times the blond's voice would be so oddly gentle, so sincere, that Harry would almost think it hinted at something more than what they had together. It was something Harry couldn't even begin to explain, and something he wasn't even sure he wanted.

"Not just yet," Harry would reply. "Don't get your hopes up." And Malfoy would nod, and after a few more strokes of the other man's hair, he would roll away again and go back to sleep.

Harry stared at the other side of the bed where Malfoy lay amidst the bedclothes, curling away from Harry. The hair gel had come out during the night, and so the white-blond hair fell soft and loose about Malfoy's face. Like an innocent child and so unlike the boy who had let Death Eaters into Hogwarts and had tried murder Professor Dumbledore, Malfoy slept with his hands making a pillow under his cheek.

Harry pulled on a pair of jeans and then shuffled into the kitchen to put on the tea. As he poured some cereal into a bowl, he for some reason remembered the autumn night that Malfoy had insisted they shag on the roof of Harry's building.

"What if someone sees?" Harry had asked.

"Who's going to see us, Potter? It's the middle of the fucking night!" And he'd smirked in that infuriating way of his, the one that made Harry want to punch him.

In the end, Harry had taken the invisibility cloak along, but he had dropped it in the frantic rush to unbutton and unzip and forgotten it in the fury of panting and thrusting and moaning. Then, sweaty and trembling, Harry had pulled out of Malfoy and rolled onto his back, staring up at the stars. He'd wished he remembered more astronomy; he only knew one star, Sirius. The brightest star, the one that could be seen from every single city on Earth. Sometimes Harry spoke to it, but of course never around Malfoy.

_Oh God, Sirius, I miss you,_ he'd screamed silently. _But I'm glad you're not around to see me now._

And then he'd felt cold hands on his bicep, and a leg tangle with his. "Malfoy…?" he had asked, turning his face and feeling his mouth and chin collide with a mop of silky blond hair. Malfoy's face had been pressed into Harry's neck.

"It's cold," had been the muffled, yet indignant reply. And it had been cold – the icy wind had tossed leaves and bits of paper back and forth above their heads. Most of his body had felt numb, but Harry had noticed a tingling warmth on the side of him pressed up to Malfoy. Once the blond had fallen asleep, Harry had reached out and pulled the invisibility cloak over them, hiding their cuddled forms from view.

Harry heard the kettle going off, and he shook his head to clear it before standing up to pour his tea. Harry stepped on the pedal for the Muggle rubbish bin (Malfoy had made a huge scene out of not being able to figure it out, and why couldn't Harry just Vanish things like a normal person) to toss away the tea bag, and he noticed an indigo-colored glass bottle, half-nestled under the other garbage.

Harry had reached down and pulled it out, only then noticing that its label was completely blank. Harry held the bottle up to the light, noticing small drops of some viscous liquid clinging to the sides of the glass. Frowning, Harry set it down on the counter and went to his bedroom to grab his wand.

Just as Harry was returning he heard a quiet voice. "Harry," it said in a slightly annoyed whisper. "Harry!"

Harry looked towards the fireplace and saw Ron's face suspended in the flames. "Morning, Ron."

Ron was the coach for Puddlemere United, and it was "coincidently" now his favorite Quidditch team. Hermione, his fiancée, was studying to be a civil rights attorney, so she could help bring legal equality to werewolves and house elves and other magical races. Harry, however, stacked books at Flourish and Blotts.

Ron grinned. "Merlin, Harry. You look great! Did you sleep really well, or something?"

Harry shrugged. "I slept in a bit. " He sat down on the couch in front of the fire.

Ron laughed – rather nervously, Harry thought. "Well, it agrees with you…Anyway, I'm supposed to say, well, Mum would like to have you over for a dinner party tonight. If you don't already have plans, that is."

"No…Why would I have plans?" Ron gave him a funny look. "Oh! It's…isn't it…God. It's my birthday and I completely forgot." Harry tried to grin, so that Ron would think the situation was funny instead of alarming.

"I figured," Rod replied, shaking with laughter. Then Ron's head glanced to one side, and he instantly sobered. "Er, Harry, 'Mione wanted me to say…well…I'm supposed to tell you…Malfoy's invited."

Harry didn't let the little spark of fear that lit in his chest stop him from shrugging casually. "Sure, I don't mind. We're getting along loads better now. It's been months since we last tried to kill each other."

"Uh…right," Ron sputtered, glancing again to the side at what was probably Hermione dictating the conversation. "Actually, Harry, you don't need to…er…we know."

The spark caught fire. "Know? What? What do you know?"

Ron shifted. "We know about…you and Malfoy. That he's your, er, boyfriend, or something."

Harry sank back against the couch. "He's not my boyfriend."

Now Hermione's face also appeared in the fire. "Harry, there's nothing to be ashamed of. We realize that he's changed since school. You don't need to pretend to us – we don't care that it's Draco." Ron nodded, rather belatedly, and Harry suspected Hermione had nudged him.

"I'm not…" Harry began, but his brain kept latching on to the way Hermione had said "Draco," not "Malfoy;" good old Hermione, ready to be okay with the relationship and do a wonderful job of it. Harry felt his argument melt away. "He's not my boyfriend," he repeated tiredly. "I don't know what he is."

* * *

After Ron and Hermione had left, Harry shuffled back tot he kitchen and cast a warming charm on his now-cold tea. He had agreed to come for dinner…and to bring Malfoy, assuming the other man would want to come. Why had his friends had to invite the Slytherin through _him_?Why did it have to be some big confrontation? How was he supposed to give answers to his friends when he didn't have them for himself? 

"_Draco," not "Malfoy."_

Harry remembered the summer that Malfoy had been bored with Harry's bed; they had shagged on the couch, on the floors, on the kitchen counter, and up against the refrigerator, until finally Malfoy had said, "Let's shag at Hogwarts."

"What!"

"It's perfect. It's summer – we'll have it all to ourselves. We can shag wherever we want."

Harry had shrugged. That was how it was with them – Malfoy had all of the ideas, but Harry made all of the decisions.

Harry had never been at Hogwarts during the summer, and he'd had no idea the grounds were even more beautiful than they were during spring. Many of the trees in the Forbidden Forest had been in bloom, and the grass had been sprinkled with small blue forget-me-nots. The deserted grounds had been serene, not lonely.

Suddenly, from behind him, Harry had heard, "_Incarcerous!"_ He'd felt the ropes pop into existence and bind themselves around his ankles and his wrists, and he'd fallen to the grass with a soft thud. Malfoy had kneeled over him. "Fancy a shag, Potter?"

Working hard to appear nonchalant, Harry had shrugged. "Not particularly. I'm quite knackered."

Malfoy had slapped Harry's face as if to wake him from unconsciousness. "Awake yet?"

"A bit." Harry had grinned.

Malfoy had smiled despite himself. "You are very annoying, Potter," he'd pronounced, grinding his hips against Harry's.

"I try," Harry had replied, and he'd brought his face up to Malfoy's for a fierce kiss.

"Undress me," Malfoy had whispered.

Harry had looked pointedly at his bound wrists. "I might need my hands for that."

"_Finite Incantatem."_ The ropes had slithered off both Harry's wrists and his ankles.

As Harry had held himself above Malfoy, taking in the milky white skin stretched out across the grass and the little blue flowers, shining under the moonlight, he'd thought, _God. Draco is so beautiful._

It had only been later that night, when Malfoy had been curled away from him sleeping, that Harry had realized,

"_Draco," not "Malfoy."_

Harry walked back into his kitchen, eyeing the bottle that he was sure had contained a potion. It could only be Malfoy's because no one else had been in his flat for months, and definitely not since he'd taken out the garbage.

Harry remembered the previous night: Malfoy had come over, much earlier than usual, to whine. Apparently the Ministry of Magic had finally filed through some papers and was ready to return the confiscated Malfoy property to the only surviving member of the family. Malfoy's complaining had sounded cavalier, but Harry had known his guest for nine years and could tell that Malfoy was upset.

"I had to sign _mountains_ of papers," Malfoy had sighed dramatically. "It was almost as dull as the time I had to deal with that whole legal mess when they found Mother's body."

Harry had nodded, knowing better than to say anything.

"So now I am officially in possession of the Malfoy fortune. The Manor, the summer homes, the gold, the house elves…everything. Now _I'm_ Mr. Malfoy." It had suddenly occurred to Harry how weird it felt to _talk_ to Malfoy. The insults and innuendos were so much simpler.

Malfoy had pouted. "And I haven't got the slightest idea what to do with all of it."

"Spaghetti?" Harry had suggested, holding out the pan.

"_Spaghetti,_ Potter?" Malfoy had drawled, thankfully returning to the usual banter. "And all these years you'd made out like after cooking for those Muggles you were a gourmet chef…Don't you make that face at me, Scarhead."

"I wasn't expecting you for dinner."

"Oh? Just for the shagging, then? Well, you know me. Always there to do the unexpected and brighten up your day. I'll pour wine."

_Unexpected indeed,_ thought Harry, squeezing his eyes shut to stop remembering. _What did you put in the wine, Malfoy? What was in the bottle?_

A poison? No, Harry would have been long dead by now if that had been what Malfoy had wanted. They'd had two unguarded years of shagging and drinking alcoholic beverages.

A love potion? _That_ was possible. Very possible. There were little moments – soft brushes of hands, stolen glances, the way Draco always slept curled away, as if hoping too hard would stop it from coming true…

"_Draco," not "Malfoy." Why is that?_

Harry heard a voice greeting cheerfully from the doorway. "Morning, Potter." Harry didn't turn, he just stared at the indigo bottle as Draco went on, smugly. "Potter, what _are_ you doing?"

"What was in the bottle, Malfoy?" Harry demanded, turning around sharply. "Was it a love spell?"

Draco took a shaky step back. "A – a _what?"_

"You heard me, Ferret-face."

Three things happened very quickly: Harry heard the sound of the glass bottle shattering, Harry felt himself shoved roughly up against the counter, and he could smell the cinnamon smell of Draco's breath as the blond murmured in Harry's ear, "You think it's a love potion, do you?" he panted. "Doesn't that mean you'd have to _love_ me?"

And before Harry could even think of a reply, Draco had gone. Harry was left with a phantom touch pressing him to the counter and the sense of cinnamon-scented breath tickling his ear.

"_Reparo,"_ he said, pointing his wand at the shards of indigo glass. The bottle re-formed and the torn bits of blank label pasted themselves together. Harry paused for just a minute to think, and then pointed his wand at the bottle again. "_Specialis Revelio."_

Letters in Draco's neat, aristocratic hand curled themselves into shape upon the label. _Dreamless Sleep Potion,_ they read. _For Harry._

The only thing Harry could think was that, for some reason, the thought of Draco, wrongly-accused Draco, angrily pulling on his clothes and getting ready to leave, made Harry feel incredibly nauseous. Harry dropped his wand and ran into the bedroom.

Draco stood, facing the window, and trying to button his shirt. Harry embraced him from behind.

"Get off me, Potter," growled Draco with disgust.

Harry swallowed – his throat felt dry. "I'm sorry.."

"Stop touching me.' Draco was struggling and slapping at Harry's arms – a nineteen-year-old throwing a tantrum.

Harry kissed the side of Draco's neck and rested his chin on the other man's shoulder. Eventually Draco calmed down and the pair simply stood together in the middle of Harry's bedroom.

"Today's your birthday, you know," Draco muttered. "Early this morning, while you were asleep. You're twenty."

"Mm-hmm."

"I'll bet you forgot. That'd be just like you."

"I didn't _forget…_Alright, fine. So what if I did?"

There was a pause while Draco leaned back into Harry. "I didn't."

Harry realized that he'd assumed Draco – _face it, he's "Draco" now_ – had forgotten because he hadn't made a bigger deal out of it. _What was I expecting, big glittering banners and wizard crackers and fireworks spelling out "Happy Birthday Harry"?_ He wondered if he'd been disappointed.

"Potter?"

Harry stepped back. "Yeah?"

Draco turned to face him. "Potter? I'm curious. Why did you think it was a love potion? Did that mean – "

"God, Draco, I don't know! Don't ask me that."

"'Draco,'" repeated the blond with a smirk. "You said 'Draco.' Now what does _that_ mean?"

"Drop it, okay? I don't want to do this."

"Oh, I think you do," insisted Draco, and he was fifteen again, a member of the Inquisitorial Squad deducting house points from Gryffindor. "Come on, let's hear it."

Harry exploded. "God! All any of this 'means' is that you're just as much of an arse as you were in school!"

The playful smirk dropped off Draco's face. He clenched his jaw and glared at Harry with icy hatred. Not bothering to finish buttoning his shirt, he pushed past Harry and stormed out of the flat. Seconds later Harry heard the crack of apparation.

Harry kicked the foot of his bed in frustration. "Bastard."

He wondered why, when Draco Malfoy was barely even a friend, it was so upsetting to see him hurt.

* * *

Harry apparated to a doorstep in Norfolk – a rather cluttered doorstep, he noticed as he appeared amidst several pairs of dirty boots, bags of cat food, a watering can, and box of Flesh Eating Slug repellant. The doorstep belonged to a pleasant little country house that would have looked absolutely ordinary if not for the numerous and varied plants growing out of the windows and up the walls, and the young tree growing on top of the roof. Harry smiled and knocked on the door. 

"Come in!" shouted a female voice from somewhere inside the house.

Harry walked into a room filled with the smell of something burning. The air felt smoky and Harry had to cough. The sound startled a rather round kneazle resting on an armchair, and she looked at him with what appeared to be sympathy.

"Oh, hullo, Minnie," he murmured, and walked over to scratch the kneazle behind the ear before walking hesitantly into the kitchen.

"Harry?" asked a red-headed woman loudly, turning around from the smoking oven. "Oh, good, you're here. Hold this." Harry caught the dishcloth and spatula that Ginny threw at him.

"I've got your tomatoes. What are you, er, cooking?" he asked, as conversationally as possible with the discussion he had planned. His tongue seemed to suddenly be made of lead. _Draco would be laughing and making fun of me,_ he thought briefly.

"Oh, I'm _burning_ turkey for the party tonight. Mum asked me to help with the food. Don't know why. _Hagrid_ cooks better than I do. Mum's delusional, clearly." Ginny levitated the turkey out of the oven and set it on the counter to cool.

Harry shook his head with a small smile. "Neville busy?" Neville's potions and cooking skills had greatly improved once he had stopped having Snape for a teacher, while his wife remained truly incompetent.

"Oh, yeah, he's in Austria for work. They're, like, breeding some dying plant with something from the Alps. He'll have to miss tonight, he's really sorry."

Harry ran a hand through his messy hair. "It's alright."

Neville was a magical plants researcher and traveled all over for work. He had made his house into a garden for rare and foreign plants and for his own bizarre crossbreeds, which was in fact why Ginny had needed tomatoes – she had once tried using the ones that grew in her bathroom, but it turned out they were cross-bred with Gillyweed. Often when Harry thought of Neville and Ginny – such successful people and such a happy couple – he felt a way that could only be described as wistfully jealous. He wished he could be them, but was painfully aware that he could never have done what they had.

Harry remembered that he had something to ask. "Hey, Ginny? Can I, er, talk to you about something?"

Ginny nodded. "Sure. Go ahead."

"OK. Say I'm…seeing someone. Sort of. OK, say I'm _shagging_ someone. And, er, they want to know…what it means." Ginny stared at him, clearly expecting him to go on. "So what do I do?"

Ginny blinked. "What do you…Well, what _does_ it mean?"

"I don't _know!_ That's the problem. I told him that, and then– " Harry froze, waiting for Ginny to look shocked, or disgusted, but she just motioned him to continue. "Then he got all huffy and left, and…Does it have to _mean_ something?"

Ginny sighed. "No, it doesn't _have_ to – "

"Good. Because I just don't…I mean, I _hate_ him! And after everything he's…And he's still so…Ugh! He's _such_ an _arse!"_

After a moment, Ginny said, "OK. Harry, can we forget this cryptic pronoun stuff? This is about Malfoy, isn't it?"

Harry choked. "Did Hermione tell you?"

"…No. You're just that obvious."

Harry waited for a moment before asking, "It doesn't bother you?"

"Honestly, Harry? It does a bit. He was always so mean in school, such a bigoted git, and a _Death Eater_…But he's been through, you know…With his father, and switching sides…and when he showed up in the middle of the war, asking for help…I can believe that something's changed."

Harry wondered if he should clarify that he wasn't shagging Draco because the Slytherin had switched sides, but because he was _there._

"And you know, Harry, ultimately…It's not up to me. Or to Ron, or Hermione, or anyone. Just you."

Harry nodded. "OK, it's up to me. I still don't know what I want, though."

"Right, OK." Ginny sighed, and wiped her hands on the dishcloth. "Is it just the sex? Or do you like other things too…I guess I mean, would it be the same if you replaced Malfoy with, I don't know, Seamus?"

Harry made a face and then said, "No, because he wouldn't be Malfoy." He had meant it to be witty, stating the obvious so they could laugh at it, but as soon as the words were coming out of his mouth he found that they weren't very funny at all.

Ginny waited until he met her gaze. "Then maybe you need to apologize to him." Ginny turned around and poked the turkey, and then charmed some of the charred bits off.

"I'm supposed to apologize to _him?" _Harry exclaimed as she worked. "How is _that_ fair? He was just as bad as I was."

"Did you turn twenty this morning, or _five_? This is how grown-ups deal with things." Harry blushed and muttered an apology. "Harry. Not to risk sounding like my mum or like Remus or someone, but sometimes things _aren't_ fair. Sometimes you have to apologize to people when you weren't in the wrong. Just like you sometimes have to forgive people when maybe they don't deserve it."

It was what Remus always said when he talked about how Sirius had told Snape how to get inside the Whomping Willow. _Sometimes you have to forgive people even when they don't deserve it._ Harry remembered he'd said that when Draco had appeared at the Burrow in the middle of the night, bearing a Dark Mark and begging for mercy.

"But he's a Death Eater!" Harry had said.

Hermione had said, "Maybe he doesn't want to be."

"But he tried to kill Dumbledore!" Harry had reminded everyone.

"But he didn't," Ginny had said.

"I can't work with him!" Harry had exclaimed, hysterical.

"Don't blame you, mate," Ron had sympathized, until Mr. Weasley had glared. Mr. Weasley, who as a grown man had gotten in a fist-fight with Draco's father.

"He needs our help," Mrs. Weasley had said, "And we're going to give it."

"How can you all just forget what he did?" Harry had demanded. "How can you forgive him?"

"Sometimes you have to forgive people even when they don't deserve it," Remus had said quietly, next to Harry.

"Why does it bother you so much, Potter?" Draco had asked, after everyone else had gone off to brew tea or make food or get dry clothes. Harry had watched the way Draco's wet, see-through shirt had stuck to his skin so that Harry had been able to see the shape of his chest, his shoulders, his lean, muscled arms, the exact location of his nipples.

"I don't know," Harry had said.

_Sometimes you have to forgive._

"Merlin. You _do_ sound like Remus," Harry told Ginny, smiling at something he couldn't quite identify.

"See you at the party," Ginny said forcefully, smiling. "Thanks for the tomatoes. Now _go."_

* * *

He and Draco fought a lot, Harry realized as he climbed the stairs to Draco's flat. The current fight was far from the worst – they had kicked and cursed and had mind-numbing anger sex, and locked each other out in the rain. _It's only natural,_ Harry had often thought. _Rivals for seven years, families on opposite sides of the war...what do you expect, happily ever after?_

One fight had been worse than the rest, though. Harry remembered it easily. Even though other fights had been longer, this one stood out in his mind because even after he'd apologized there had been something left unresolved, like a book with the last chapter torn out. Draco had been oddly silent and tense, and the sex had been more violent than usual, one step past 'rough' and into the realm of bruising and scratching and biting. Usually their fights were about something ambiguous and hard to remember after the fact, but this one had been different. Harry could remember perfectly clearly how it had started.

Harry had been lying half-asleep in front of his television, watching The Odd Couple on mute, and Draco had been standing in the kitchen, using charms to slice cheese into the shapes of letters so he could spell out lewd sentences about Harry and insulting comments about Ron or Harry's over-eager next door neighbor, Trudy. Harry, occasionally laughing at Draco's cheese phrases, had otherwise been completely mesmerized by watching the actors silently move their mouths and walk from place to place.

Then the owl had come. Draco had dropped his wand and gone to open the window. "Hey, Potter," he'd said. "It's for you."

Harry had taken the letter from him and opened it.

_Hey, Harry, it's Damien. Remember me?_

_Anyway, you gave me your address and said it would be fine to owl you. If it's not, well, then, feel free to not write back._

_If so, then I was wondering if you're free this Friday? I know this great place where the food's just smashing and I'd love to introduce it to you._

_Let me know!_

"Who's Damien?" Draco had asked with very little inflection.

Harry had shrugged, folding the letter back up. "Some bloke. I met him at a bar in London."

"A gay bar?" Draco had asked with something akin to disgust.

"Honestly, Malfoy. What difference does it make? Clearly _he's_ gay."

Draco had turned back to the kitchen counter, facing away from Harry. "So when did you meet _Damien?_"

"Oh, I don't know," Harry had replied, starting to furiously scribble something on the back of the letter. "One of the many hours of my life I don't spend with you? Honestly, Malfoy. You're not my parent."

"And thank _Merlin_ for that!" Harry had tied his response to the owl's leg and gone to open the window. Draco had stared at him. "You're writing back? Why? He's clearly an insipid, arse-kissing moron."

"It's good _you're_ not dating him then."

"So...so you're dating him."

Harry had nodded as if Draco were very, very stupid. "We agreed we could see other people, remember? Since _we're_ not seeing each other, right?"

"So you've been seeing him. Fan-bloody-tastic. And here I thought he was just some bloke who wanted to shag to the famous Harry Potter!"

"Oh?" Harry had then looked into Draco's cruel face, and in a thoughtless moment, he'd pulled back his fist and punched the other man. "So he could only want me 'cause I'm famous? Is that why _you_ shag me? Huh, Malfoy?" The blond had been leaning against the kitchen counter, clutching his hand to his nose. A thin ribbon of blood had trickled over his lips and down his chin. "Can't get enough of the Boy Who Lived?"

Draco's eyes had been livid. He'd spat the blood out on Harry's floor. "You're disgusting."

Harry had stared at the red splatters in his gray-white carpet with growing horror. "Oh I am, am I?" he'd challenged. "And you know what that says about you, right? Perv boy? Junior Death Eater?"

"Fuck off, Potter." Draco had wiped his nose, smearing the blood across his pale face. Harry had thought it was over, but then Draco, quick as a flash of lightning, had whipped out his wand and shouted, "_Rictusempra!"_ and Harry had felt himself blast off the ground and spin quickly in the air before landing with a sickening crunch.

By the time he had pulled himself to his feet, Draco had gone.

At the time, Harry had been sure Draco had been in the wrong, but at some point, he'd decided that maybe they'd both been to blame for the fight. He wondered who was at fault this time.

Harry reached Draco's hallway. He'd only been there a few times – usually when he and Draco had gotten in a fight and Harry had needed to go apologize. It seemed Draco was hardly ever there, either, and they had never shagged at Draco's. Harry thought the Slytherin avoided his flat because he had rented it with the compensation money from when his mother had been murdered.

Harry rang Draco's doorbell. "GO AWAY!" Draco shouted from inside.

Harry opened the door anyway, and saw that Draco was lying like a deflated balloon on his couch, staring at an unopened bag of chips.

"You'd better stop bingeing on those chips, Malfoy, you're getting fat," he said wryly, sitting on the arm of the couch at Draco's feet.

"Fuck off, Potter," Draco sulkily rejoined. "If I were speaking to you I would tell you that you, of all people, should not be talking about fatness, and that I can eat whatever I want because I'm thin and sexy and drop-dead gorgeous. You're just jealous."

Harry resisted a strong urge to kick Draco in the nuts, and said instead, "Sure, Malfoy. Eat what you want, just save room for tonight. The Weasleys invited us to my birthday dinner party."

Draco made a face. "If I were speaking to you I'd tell you I'm not going. I'm busy – I've made plans to watch my nails grow." Draco frowned, realizing he'd spoken directly. "Or so I'd say if I were speaking to you."

Harry grabbed the bag of chips off Draco's stomach and threw it at his face. "Fuck, Draco, grow up! I'm sorry, okay, I'm sorry I hurt your fragile little Malfoy feelings! I'm apologizing here, so just accept it, alright? It's bad enough that _you_ never say you're sorry, but you've at _least_ got to meet me halfway!" Harry paused for a breath, which was good because his face felt hot and was probably bright red. He was surprised to find that when he spoke again, he sounded almost reasonable. "Just go to the goddamn party."

Draco, unexpectedly, did not come back with a nasty retort. He simply stared at Harry, and underneath Draco's mask of insolent calmness Harry could see minute traces of emotions flitting across the pale face. Harry was about to demand a reply when Draco concluded, "You really want me to come to this thing, don't you?"

Harry itched to deny it. He wanted to wipe the smug look off Draco's face and obliterate the idea that he actually _wanted_ to go to the dinner party and he _wanted_ to take Draco with him. He wondered if when Remus had decided to forgive Sirius, Harry's godfather been faced with a choice between standing up for himself and losing his best friend forever.

"I don't want to go without you," Harry admitted reluctantly, and it sounded truer than he'd thought it would.

Draco made a big show of pondering the decision, lifting his forefinger to his chin. Finally, he said, "I suppose."

Harry poked Draco hard in the chest. "Now go get ready. It's in three hours, so you'll have to rush," he teased.

"Go fuck yourself," Draco rejoined, standing up.

"I would but I don't want to distract you."

"Whatever, Harry."

Harry wondered if the Slytherin felt just as strange when Harry called him 'Draco.'

* * *

The door opened and Ginny smiled out at them. "Oh, hi, Harry. Malfoy. Come in." 

Ron stuck his head into the hallway. "Gin, is Harry – oh, Harry, hi. Didn't see you there." The redhead then looked over at Draco, and seemed to be waging a war with himself over what to say.

"Weasley," Draco greeted cooly, inclining his head. Harry knew that, beneath his distant, diplomatic expression, Draco was sneering at the cluttered house, the ratty Weasley clothes, the lack of 12th century silver sconces on the walls.

"Malfoy," Ron returned.

Harry heard Mrs. Weasley shouting from the other room. "Ginny, dear, who is it at the door? She bustled into the entryway. "Harry, dear! It's so wonderful to see you." She enveloped Harry in a heartfelt yet stifling hug. Harry noticed she had noticeably aged since the last time he'd visited, a few months back – her once-red hair was almost entirely gray.

"Hi, Mrs. Weasley," Harry mumbled.

The middle-aged woman then turned to Draco. She smiled warmly. "I'm glad you could come, Draco," she told him.

Draco nodded, and reluctantly added, "Thanks."

"Everyone's in the sitting room. Go in and say hi, and while you're at it let them know that supper's almost ready."

Draco steered Harry towards the sitting room, letting go of Harry's hips before anyone could see.

"Harry!" everyone shouted excitedly, raising their glasses or blowing party trumpets. Harry glanced around the room, noting that almost all the guests were what remained of the Order of the Phoenix, and a few were co-workers of Ron or Hermione's with whom Harry was more or less friendly. Only one guest worked with Harry at Flourish and Blotts – an energetic teenaged girl named Sandra. Talking to Sandra always made Harry feel old.

"Hi, Draco," Hermione greeted, standing and walking towards them. "I'm glad you could make it. Really."

"Sure, Granger...Hermione," Draco corrected, a bit of pink coloring his cheeks.

Hermione smiled, a little awkwardly. "You've called me much worse. Don't worry about it."

Harry saw Seamus wave him over. "Heya, Harry." Seamus flashed him a tipsy grin. "Happy birthday."

"Hi." Harry took the drink that Seamus shoved at him.

"Great party, huh? The Weasleys really went all out."

"Yeah."

"Hey, Fred, George, and I were wondering. What's Malfoy doing here?" Harry choked on his drink.

"I was invited," Harry heard Draco pronounce coldly. Harry turned to see the Slytherin standing close behind him.

"Creep," Seamus mouthed very obviously to Harry. Harry found himself nodding.

"Er," he stammered, "I've, er, got to go to the bathroom. Be back in a bit."

Once Harry had escaped and sagged against the dining room wall, he looked to see that Draco had followed him. The blond leaned on the wall beside him.

"What do you want?"

Draco's eyes narrowed. "What do I _want?_ I want to know, what was that? Why do you never stand up for me?" Harry had no answer. The silence felt raw and painful until Draco continued. "...Are you ashamed of me?"

Harry let his head fall back and hit the wall. "Draco..."

"Shut up, Potter. I can't believe you. You won't stand up for me because you're ashamed of me! I –"

Harry had to grab Draco's shoulders and shove him against the wall to get him to pay attention. "I'm _shagging – _" he hissed, "I'm shagging a man all of my friends hate, who used to be a Death Eater, who bullied us at school, and who's always been mean and snobby and rude and who I'm not even _dating!_ Of _course_ I'm ashamed!"

Draco stared at Harry. The dining room had become so silent that they could hear the lively party carrying on in the other room.

Finally Draco spoke. "Let me get this...You're ashamed because we're not _dating?"_

"Shut up, Malfoy. That's not what I said. And maybe it wasn't clear but I _didn't_ bring you here to make fun – "

Draco covered Harry's mouth with his. "Mmm!" Harry protested, uncomfortable with snogging in Mrs. Weasley's dining room but not quite wanting to stop.

They heard footsteps falling in the hallway and Harry pulled away. "Honestly, Harry," Draco scolded. "It's not like they've never seen snogging – " Draco looked at Harry's face and apparently saw something there that made his own expression revert to one of his emotionless Malfoy masks. "Fine. Go and mingle. I'll see you at dinner." Harry watched the Slytherin turn around and stalk from the room.

Harry began to walk back to the sitting room, but just as he reached for the doorknob, the door opened and all the guests poured into the dining room. Ron found him by nearly running him over, and steered him to the table. "You can sit here, Mum'll want you to," Ron told him. "You'll like dinner – Mum's been working on it since yesterday. I heard Ginny made a turkey though, I'm a bit worried about that."

Harry grinned and sat down. Ron sat down beside him, and soon Hermione sat beside Ron, and the couple began a conversation Harry couldn't share, about work and real estate and politics. As all the seats filled up, the seat on Harry's other side remained empty.

"The economy's really picking up now that the war's over," Harry heard Hermione telling Ron. "Of course, it affects housing prices..."

Harry often thought about the war, but he hardly ever thought about the final showdown – he left that to his nightmares. But as he pushed his food around on his plate, he found himself remembering the first night everything was over.

Draco had been there beside him the whole time. If he hadn't been so shell-shocked, he probably would have been surprised; he'd always assumed the boy who'd been terrified of the Forbidden Forest would tuck himself away somewhere safe when the fighting began. Draco hadn't been brave, exactly, not like the Gryffindors, but he had been loyal.

Harry heard chair legs scraping the ground, and saw Draco slip into the empty seat. Harry looked at him and nudged his feet, but the other man would not even look in Harry's direction, let alone say anything. Harry slipped back into memory.

"Malfoy?" Harry had asked, as he and the blond had sipped their hot soup on the Weasleys' back porch, looking out into the moonlit back yard. For the first time in months, everyone had been leaving the two of them alone. "Did the, er, Sorting Hat ever try to put you in a different house from Slytherin?"

"Hufflepuff," Draco had said wryly, and Harry had honestly not known whether Draco had been joking or not. "Why, were you almost _not_ a Gryffindork? Can't have tried to put you in Ravenclaw – they wouldn't have wanted an idiot like you."

Harry had glowered at the boy beside him – the boy he'd been shagging, the boy who'd been a servant of Voldemort, the boy whom he still called by his last name – and then he'd said, "Slytherin. It wanted to put me in Slytherin."

Draco had spit out his soup. "You? _You,_ Gryffindor Golden Boy? Noble, brave, and stupid? _You_ were almost a Slytherin? You've got to be joking." After staring at Harry for a while, Draco had added, "The Boy Who Lived, in Slytherin? I bet you'd have none of it."

Harry had laughed. He'd thought his laugh had sounded funny, like the laugh of a lunatic. He'd thought it had rankled in the stagnant air of one of the worst nights that had ever happened. He was the Boy Who Lived, savior of the wizarding world.

Draco had leaned over and kissed him. Harry might have allowed it, since he had been crazy and only half-awake anyway, but Draco's kiss had been too tender, the touch of his hands far too gentle. Harry had stood up angrily.

"What are you doing, Malfoy?" he had demanded in the low growling voice he used for Death Eaters. He had reminded himself that the boy in front of him, slender and silver in the moonlight, was also a Death Eater.

Draco had put a sardonic smirk on his face. "Taking advantage of you in your fatigue," he'd said, and Harry had become aware of how much Draco could sound like his father.

"This ends right now," Harry had said firmly, trembling with anger or something like it. "The war is over, and so is…so is whatever it was we were doing."

"Fucking?" Lucius Malfoy's son had supplied cruelly.

"I hate you!"

"Likewise, Potter. And we hated each other during the war, too. So how's anything different now?" Draco had stopped asking questions and started daring Harry to find answers.

Harry had clenched his fists. "Sex in the middle of a…_crisis_, when Death Eaters could find you and you could die at any moment? That doesn't mean _anything_.But now there isn't a war. Just some people who have to live normal lives again."

Draco had tilted his head to an angle of seduction. "Sex doesn't have to _mean_ anything," he'd drawled.

Harry had felt his anger and had seen his fist flying into Draco's pale, pointed face, but it had only been when he'd seen the blood dripping from the other boy's nose that he'd known he was really, truly insane.

"Fuck you, Potter!" Draco had hissed as he'd scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the house.

Harry might have been crazy and angry and exhausted by the unreal silence of the night, but he'd known that Draco Malfoy would never be the one to take the high road and apologize first.

* * *

Harry sat on a whicker chair on the Weasley's back porch, staring at the sky, which was still too light to show any stars but too dark to see by. He heard the footsteps come up out onto the porch but he didn't turn to see who was there. 

"Harry?" asked Remus's voice quietly, cautiously. "I know it's not exactly my place, but you _are_ like a son to me..."

Harry turned to look at last. "What is it?" Even though the graying werewolf was over forty and looked older still, Harry found he could easily imagine Remus at fifteen.

"Well, I wanted to know how you were, if you had anything to talk about...About you and Draco Malfoy, perhaps?"

"Oh," stated Harry, feeling the blood rush to his face.

"I know that maybe you feel uncomfortable talking to me about it, but...I think I can relate. And I'm not quite as biased as some of his classmates may be."

"Remus," said Harry. "It's not like I don't think you mean well – I mean, I know you do – it's just...It's so complicated. It's _Malfoy..._And how can you really – I mean, you're straight..."

Remus grew calm. "No, Harry, I'm not."

Harry stared at his father's friend. _What?_

"For many years I was involved with Sirius."

Harry realized his mouth was open, so he closed it. Remus and Sirius were – had been – gay? Together?

Harry remembered how Remus and Sirius had been around each other – he could easily imagine they'd been boyfriends. Suddenly, something occurred to Harry. "Did you love each other?"

"Of course. In more ways than one."

"What abound Tonks?"

"I love her too."

"...Wow."

Remus smiled. They were both quiet for a while. "Harry, I know I've told you the Whomping Willow story so many times it probably bores you to tears. But there's more to it. At the time, Sirius and I were – well, not together, but we weren't just friends, either. We'd gotten into a fight, as you know...maybe now you know exactly how much he hurt me with what he did.

"But you also know I forgave him. That was one of the hardest things I've ever done. But I don't regret it at all – I regard it as the best choice I've ever made in my life." Remus chuckled. "OK, I'm done imparting my excessive pearls of wisdom. Get back inside and celebrate. You only turn 20 once."

Harry stood up but didn't leave. "Wait, Remus...What was the hardest thing?"

Remus took a long time to answer. He put a hand on Harry's shoulder in a way that comfortingly reminded Harry of Dumbledore or Sirius. "Losing him," Remus answered quietly. "And having to keep on living anyway."

Harry nodded and, on a sudden whim, reached out to Remus for a hug. Remus ruffled Harry's hair, and Harry imagined that having a father must feel something like what he was feeling. He grinned and went inside.

As he walked through the Burrow, Harry remembered the first night after the war. He had not been able to sleep, so he'd crept out of his room and down the stairs, chanting to himself, trying to remember where everyone was sleeping. _Malfoy's in the sitting room. Malfoy's sleeping on the couch in the sitting room._ As he'd crept down the creaky stairs, Harry had run his fingers over the doors, murmuring who was supposed to be sleeping inside. When he'd gotten to Percy's old room, Harry had almost gone in before remembering that Bill and Fleur were in there now, not Malfoy, not like during the war.

Harry had been so paranoid about getting caught that he would not have been sneaking downstairs to see Malfoy had he been able to get the vision of the blond's broken nose out of his mind. Every creak or groan of the house, or the occasional snores of the ghoul in the attic, had made Harry jump and look around for anyone who might be watching him.

As Harry had reached the bottom of the stairs, he'd slowed. _What if Malfoy's sleeping?_ he'd asked himself. _Should I just leave him alone until tomorrow?_

_Or what if he's awake? What if he sees me and shouts and everyone finds out I'm down here?_

Harry had taken another step and tripped over the last stair, falling loudly to his hands and knees. He'd been fairly sure the sound had echoed.

"Who's there?" had come Draco's cautious voice.

For a second, Harry had frozen, moving nothing, saying nothing. As if acting like he weren't there would make it true. Finally, he'd whispered. "It's me." He'd heard footsteps coming near him and he'd scrambled to stand up.

"No rush, Potter. I don't want you off your hands and knees just yet," Draco had drawled.

Feeling himself flush, Harry had sat down on the bottom stair. Harry's eyes had panned up Draco's body, taking in the bare feet, Chudley Cannons pajama pants borrowed from Ron, and lack of a shirt. Harry had swallowed, and for some reason been reminded of the time in Sixth Year when Draco had beaten him up on the Hogwarts Express.

"Is your arse ready for a kicking, Potter? Or maybe something else?" the pale boy had leered.

Harry had reached up and pulled Draco's arms as he kicked the Slytherin's feet out from under him – Draco had fallen against Harry, the two of them half-lying, half-sitting on the stairs. Harry had captured Draco's lips in a bruising kiss.

"Fuck you," he'd hissed. "Ever shagged on the staircase, Potter?"

"Malfoy, I need to talk to you."

Draco had glared and put his fingers in his ears.

Harry had torn Draco's hands away. "I need you to listen."

Draco had sulked but allowed Harry to drag him to the Weasleys' couch and sit him down on it. Harry had taken a deep breath and thought about how weird it was that he was in the Weasley's sitting room at two in the morning, sitting on their couch with Draco Malfoy, whom at the moment he both viciously hated and desperately wanted to shag. "Nose better?" he had asked, wincing shortly afterwards when he realized what a stupid thing he'd said.

"It's _been_ better, many times. Just about every time you haven't recently broken it."

"I'm – " Harry had swallowed. "I'm sorry."

Draco had stared for a moment, then looked away. "Yeah. Sorry my arse."

Harry had crept closer, so that he was leaning hard against Draco. "It will be when I'm through with it," he'd whispered.

Draco had turned, and their faces had been inches apart, their noses almost touching, their eyes glaring with such electricity the air felt ready to spark. Draco had purred, his voice smooth and delicious, "What makes you think _you'd_ be...Wait, we're not over?"

Harry had covered the few inches and smashed his mouth against Draco's, tangling his hands in the white-blond hair. "Kind of looks that way." Draco had leaned back and pulled Harry over on top of him, his expression calm and confusing. Harry had fallen asleep relatively easily that night, and when he'd woken up just before dawn, he'd found a blond head resting peacefully on his shoulder, and pale, aristocratic fingers splayed possessively across his chest.

In the sitting room, which was mostly empty since many of the guests had left, Harry found Hermione sitting in an armchair, talking to Draco. He watched as Hermione said something clearly witty, and Draco laughed. Then Draco made what Harry assumed was an off-color remark, judging by the way Hermione wrinkled her nose when she heard it. Then she laughed openly when she decided that Draco had meant it as a joke. _It could have been meant either way, knowing Draco,_ Harry thought.

Ron walked into the sitting room and over to the drink table. He then caught sight of Harry. "Oy, mate! Want anything?" he asked. "I'll pour it for you."

"Just wine," Harry replied. "Draco? You want a drink?"

Draco looked over at him and then at Ron, raising his pale eyebrows. "Rum with a twist," he said casually, and returned to his conversation.

Ron handed Harry his and Draco's drinks and Harry went to sit down on the sofa beside the blond. Harry expected Draco to still be angry, but the other man leaned slightly against him in reconciliation. Ron sat down on the arm of Hermione's chair, and soon Ron, Harry, and even Draco were embroiled in an intense Quidditch discussion; Hermione tried to contribute but understood very little and had even less to say, and gradually drifted off to sleep.

Eventually the conversation evolved into Ron telling stories about his job as a coach, and Draco said that even though he wasn't a great Quidditch player, he thought he might like to try coaching, and Ron even offered to mention him to some managers. Simply because Draco was Harry's boyfriend, of course, not because he and Ron were friends.

Then the conversation drifted to Ron and Hermione, and their wedding, and how they hadn't really thought about it yet but would Harry like to be Best Man, and maybe Draco could be a bridesmaid, if he was lucky. And then somehow they had started talking about Harry's job at Flourish and Blotts, which for the first time he didn't even pretend to like.

"So what do you _want_ to do?" Ron had asked.

"I don't know," Harry told him. "I really have no idea. I used to want to be an Auror, but now I know I don't. I just don't know what I do want."

Ron frowned. "You could teach," he suggested after a while. "You know, what Remus did. Defense Against the Dark Arts. I mean, remember how good you were with the DA? And you were only fifteen. Of course, you'd have to go to a university and study for a while first, but it could be worth it. I can really see you doing that."

"I don't know..." Harry thought of fighting through crowds of energetic university students, taking classes again, passing tests, remembering things he'd forgotten. But he found the idea of being like Remus appealing – he could imagine himself grading Hogwarts papers, drinking tea from tea bags in his office, joking or cuddling with Sirius who was actually Draco, only his boyfriend and someone he loved.

_Maybe._

"Harry, look!" Ron murmured, pointing. Harry looked to see that Draco had fallen asleep, and that his head was resting against Harry's shoulder, blond hair flopping over his face. Although Harry had seen Draco sleeping many, many times before, each time he felt surprised all over again by how fragile that face looked when it was asleep, as if wildness and cruel humor were not lurking somewhere beneath. It reminded Harry of every other time he'd ever watched Draco sleep, and wondered where the Malfoy act ended, and where the real Draco began.

"Malfoy?" Harry had asked. It had been the first chance he'd had to catch Draco alone since the seventeen-year-old had shown up, lost and unwashed, on the doorstep of the Burrow, begging for help from the Order. It was a time of war and people were always around, and Harry had a million questions to ask.

The Slytherin had been lying on the floor of the sheep barn where he and Harry were hidden, his un-gelled, silvery-blond hair mingling with the golden straw. Harry may have been so frustrated by being kept safe and out of the way of fighting that he hadn't even been able to lie down to rest, but it had been clear that Draco wasn't. He had been sleeping peacefully, an angel except for the vile, serpentine mark, curling up the creaminess of the underside of his forearm. When he stirred his arm turned over, hiding the Dark Mark from view.

"Malfoy?" Harry had asked again, nudging the waking boy, and Draco had opened his eyes, dropping the pretense of sleep. "What?" the blond had asked irritably.

"Malfoy, I don't mean to…But why did you switch sides?"

Draco had stared at him for several seconds before finally sitting up. "You woke me up for _that?"_ he'd asked, in a tone that had been more playful than vindictive. "Well, when it got out that I don't kill on demand, I wasn't really You know Who's favorite anymore, was I? I figured your noble Order would keep me safe."

Harry had sputtered indignantly. "We're not _protecting_ you! We're using your Dark Mark to lead us to Voldemort!"

Draco had shuddered at the name but replied, "A tactic I support as wholeheartedly as possible without compromising my status as your enemy."

"You're not my enemy. Voldemort is."

"Right," Draco had said after a while. "You're not mine, either."

At the time, Harry hadn't been sure why he'd done it, and looking back on that night in the sheep barn in Scotland, he still wasn't too sure. But he remembered how he'd leaned in and felt the shock of Draco's lips moving against his, Draco's hands in his hair and on his skin.

He remembered the way the straw had poked into his knees as he'd kneeled above Draco, rubbing against him, and how when they were both spent and panting puffs of fog into the air, Draco had transfigured some straw into a coarse, yellowish blanket and pulled it over them. The sheep, curious about what had just happened, had nuzzled their faces and made Harry flush with sudden awareness of what they'd done.

But beside him, Draco had yawned and turned over and fallen asleep. And Harry had stayed beside him, watching, and had marveled at how much less he'd feared the dawn of the approaching day.


End file.
